


Speaking in Tongues

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D’Artagnan knew Porthos sings in the shower. He didn't realize that Porthos actually understood the Italian he was singing. But now that he does, he wants Porthos to talk dirty to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speaking in Tongues

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting from tumblr because I crave the Validation(TM).

D’Artagnan knows Porthos sings in the shower. Their whole building probably knows. Porthos sings in a deep baritone as if he’s in the spotlight, center stage on Broadway.

D’Artagnan knows that Porthos sings an approximation of opera: the low, rolling notes; the sustained bridges; the ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhhhhs and the grand flourishes while he gargles. It’s pretty funny to listen to – at least, it is now, after he's gotten used to it.

The first few times d’Artagnan was jerked out of sleep by a rousing aria, he had to remind himself that he was in their shared apartment and not being attacked by a homicidal rock star.

But until now, d’Artagnan thought that Porthos was just singing comical operatic-sounding nonsense.

He blinks at his reflection in the foggy mirror and then backs up so he’s even with the shower again. He raps his knuckles against the opaque glass. “Wait, are you actually singing Italian?”

Porthos finishes the line, or verse, or whatever. Water splashes. “What, love?”

“Are you actually speaking Italian? You know the words and everything?”

The shower door cracks open and Porthos’ affronted frown peers out. “Of course I am.”

“But you _know_ Italian? You can speak it for real, not just memorizing lines?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I ever tell you?” Porthos leaves the door where it is and begins slathering soap between his hands. He raises an eyebrow at d’Artagnan when the other man remains standing there, staring open-mouthed at Porthos.

“You are _so_ talking dirty to me in Italian when I get home tonight,” d’Artagnan says.

“Why wait?” grins Porthos, and pushes the door open all the way.

The Italian goes a long way in their shower. And on the couch. And in the hallway. And on the bedroom floor. It gets to be so that d’Artagnan’s head is ringing with Porthos’ words, foreign but unmistakable as he murmurs against d’Artagnan’s neck and traces the phrases onto d’Artagnan’s thigh with his tongue.

He’s got some of the words down. He recites them to himself when he’s bored at work, lost in the pleasant memory daydream. Maybe he could learn some words and surprise Porthos. Yeah, answer one of his phrases in Italian – fumbling, awkward Italian, but worth it for the look of surprise on Porthos’ face.

He fools around with Google Translate a bit, trying to figure out how to spell the words Porthos used most.

That can’t be right: Porthos wasn’t talking about forest rangers. And d’Artagnan is definitely spelling something wrong if all Google is giving him is “fire mountain.”

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwait.

He types in all the words he can remember, and when he’s done, he sits back in outrage.

‘Half-man.’ ‘Ring Assembly.’ ‘Horse country.’ ‘Three hunters.’

D'Artagnan clenches his fist. “Dammit, Porthos,” he declares. “I’ll get you back for this!”

His coworker clears her throat and glances away. 

* * *

 

“How was work?” Porthos asks as he tosses his coat over a chair. Exactly as d’Artagnan has reminded him not to do a thousand times.

He grinds his teeth. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” Porthos pouts and comes over to d’Artagnan on the couch. He manages to straddle d’Artagnan, and runs his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair.

D’Artagnan sighs as Porthos lets his ponytail down, rubbing his scalp. “I guess I’m just not in the mood to think about work.”

“Mmmm. I can give you something else to think about.” Porthos kisses d’Artagnan and d’Artagnan relaxes into the kiss, bringing one hand up to stroke Porthos’ cheek. He’s always liked the feel of Porthos’ stubble under his palm, and now he slides his hand up Porthos’ jaw to his ear. Porthos makes a rumbling purr. He breaks the kiss and moves his lips down d’Artagnan’s jaw, to his neck.

D’Artagnan moans and rolls his head back. “Talk to me,” he says.

“About what? My day? I had a nice macchiato, and then there were free bagels in the break room…” Porthos pretends to yelp as d’Artagnan twists his ear.

“Talk sexy to me, babe.”

Porthos laughs softly into d’Artagnan’s collarbone. “Yeah? _Gli alberi hanno attaccato… la roccaforte del mago bianco_ ,” he paused for a nip, “ _e scoppiare la diga_.”

D’Artagnan takes his unoccupied hand from behind his back and shoves his phone in Porthos’ face.

“’The trees attacked the stronghold of the white wizard and burst the dam’,” says Siri.

Porthos freezes.

And then he breaks out into a belly laugh that does nothing to protect him from d’Artagnan’s kicks.

“It’s not funny!”

Porthos tries to catch one of d’Artagnan’s stockinged feet, but the tears streaming from his eyes are impaired his coordination. “It’s really, really funny, babe.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch for the rest of your life,” d’Artagnan promises.

“But we were just getting to the third movie!”

Porthos laughs even harder as d’Artagnan tackles him.

He’s no match for Porthos, even when the bigger man is in apparent stomach pain due to his uncontrollable guffawing. D’Artagnan wiggles free and pretends to walk away with his pride, leaving Porthos still chuckling into the carpet.

D’Artagnan slams the bedroom door behind him.

Two hours later and the closed door is doing nothing to block out the sound of Porthos’ intermittent giggling. D’Artagnan’s phone keeps lighting up with alerts, and he just _knows_ that Porthos is updating all his statuses with mentions of d’Artagnan.

He gives into temptation and checks Facebook. There’s a photo of Porthos on the couch, looking forlorn with only a tiny pillow under his head, with the caption “bae kicked me out of bed. still #worthit”

D’Artagnan throws his phone at Porthos’ regular-sized feather pillow. He scowls at the empty side of the bed.

On the other side of the door, Porthos breaks out into another round of giggles.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan says, loudly enough to be heard through the door. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to kick you out for real.”

He knows he’s lost the game the minute he says it, because Porthos is getting off the couch and crossing to the bedroom. He cracks the door open without knocking, and even though it’s pitch black d’Artagnan can hear the grin in his voice.

“Come on, baby. Let me make it up to you.”

D’Artagnan crosses his arms. Again, it’s too dark for Porthos to tell, but it’s the principle of the thing that matters. “Nothing you can do can make it up to me.”

“What if I tell you the plot of the third–” Porthos breaks off, laughing, when d’Artagnan’s feather pillow missile hits its mark. “Okay, okay.” He sobers, only a trace of laughter left in his voice. “I’m sorry."

He crosses to the bed and kneels at the edge, making a show of feeling out where d’Artagnan is and feeling him up in the process. D’Artagnan works on laying like a particularly indignant sack of rocks as Porthos tries to scoop him up.

Porthos kisses behind d’Artagnan’s ear. “Listen. I’ll only use my powers for good from now on. It was a dumb thing to do. Like they say in Italy, _un sole rosso aumenta. Il sangue è stato versato questa notte_.”

“I know you’re quoting Legolas,” says d’Artagnan.

“Lembas,” says Porthos, and breaks into giggles again.

“Fuck you,” says d’Artagnan.


End file.
